


big man

by psychamonia



Series: t+t hunger games [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychamonia/pseuds/psychamonia
Summary: “Please give a round of applause for Thomas Simons, your Victor of the 50th Hunger Games!”---Tommy, after his Hunger Games.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, No Romantic Relationship(s), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: t+t hunger games [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982167
Comments: 16
Kudos: 256





	big man

**Author's Note:**

> again: please disregard any inaccuracies regarding Hunger Games lore as a conscious choice. it might have been, or i might just be stupid- we'll never know.

Tommy uses the healing cream because he has to.

It’s five tributes after Tubbo. (Tommy doesn’t measure in days anymore. They all blend into one everlasting transition between light and dark, hunting and walking and gathering with what little pieces of himself he can clutch together.) The last one was one of his, and she fought fiercely and quickly with her knife before he ended it. Now he’s one gash closer to collapsing. 

His hand shakes as he twists open the lid, mind screaming to throw the whole tin away. Smoothing the cream over the still-weeping wound on his shoulder, Tommy shudders at the chemical chill as it dulls the pain, knitting his shoulder closed. A knot forms deep inside his stomach. 

(Tubbo could have lived, with this. Who is he to deserve it?)

The cold is suddenly unbearable. He grits his teeth and forces himself through. 

\---

At the end, Tommy stands in a pool of blood and breathes. 

His last victim lays face down a few feet away, almost peaceful in her wind-tossed hair and neatly arranged limbs. She didn’t get the chance to fight. At least, not to fight Tommy. He stabbed her from behind as she kneeled, gloating, over her own kill. 

When she fell, they could almost be hugging. 

His sword clatters onto the rocks beneath him, and he drops to his knees, pressing his forehead against the sticky ground. 

They’re so far from the field where they started. Not the Cornucopia field, carnage scattered among white clovers, like spots of heavenly clouds; not the field where Tubbo still lays, smiling and gone, in his mind’s eye; but the field where it _all_ began. Where they became friends. Where they were children. 

The kindergarten field, their first measure of growing up, where they cultivated their first plants. Tommy’s had died from lack of water within the first few months, but Tubbo’s had overgrown into the empty plot anyway, wild and prosperous. He was always better about keeping things together, better about taking care of those that had worth to him. 

Tommy wonders if he would still qualify. 

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to stand, swaying as he looks into the sky. Memories- old and new, welcome and despised- flash through his mind.

From above, the announcer’s voice booms, full of congratulations and promises of a new life ahead. Tommy tilts his face upwards and tries not to hate everything about it. 

The day is cold. The sun is bright. Tommy is irrevocably changed. 

\---

The Capitol is still as stomach-turning as it was the first time he stayed there. Where before, the luxuries mocked him with promises of a full life he’d never have, they now openly jeer at him. He imagines every picture has a mouth full of crooked, rotting teeth, filed to points, ready to tear at his flesh and steal the very last thing he still has- his body. 

He can’t sleep through the night anymore. He misses the hospital and its drugs, lying restless in the suffocating comfort of his mattress. It’s only been a few nights, but he thinks he should look better, should look somehow _whole_ now that he’s back in society. But when he catches his reflection, it’s the same person who stared back from the Arena’s ponds. It’s the same face that shone from the metal of his shield as he laid another person flat on their back.

In absence of a hand ( _don’t think don’t think don’t think_ ), Tommy grips the sheets and cries. 

\---

Their video paints Tommy as a survivor, and he loathes it. He sits on the throne they made him, baring his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile, and watches as they humanize him. He doesn’t feel worthy of even their twisted version of mercy. 

It’s worse that they hardly include Tubbo. In their world, Tommy is a lone hero, fighting to the end, driven by nothing but grit and determination. They show a clip of his interview- ‘alpha male’ and ‘clingy’ ring painfully in his ears. His friendship with Tubbo becomes an alliance. His volunteering becomes a bold quest for glory. 

It’s a fair assumption, for people that just don’t understand. Tubbo died before half the tributes were gone. Tommy spent most of his Games bitterly, painfully alone. 

The video ends, and he claps with the audience, pasting a fake smile onto his face as he thanks them for supporting his Games. Hatred crawls up his throat with nails of sharpened steel. He thinks he might choke on the blood. 

Framed by the blinding lights of the stage, the President settles a heavy crown onto Tommy’s head, beaming like a man newly saved. His face is close enough to see the powdery makeup clinging to the hairs of his eyebrows. 

“Excellent job, my boy.” The President whispers, winking like they’re friends. Tommy wants to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he swallows hard and thanks him. 

The announcer’s voice echoes across the arena, almost drowned out by the raucous cheering of the Capitol crowd. 

“Please give a round of applause for Thomas Simons, your Victor of the 50th Hunger Games!” 

\---

“Tommy?” Phil whispers in the hallway, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

Tommy shrugs him off, nearly dislodging the crown from his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Sighing, Phil reaches up to adjust the crown, centering it over Tommy’s bangs. “Your tour starts in two days. You’re going to have to talk about it.” 

Tommy laughs bitterly, forcing himself to tolerate the mock-familial fussing. “I won’t have to talk about it. The speechwriters will. It’ll be their words, not mine.” 

“You’ll still have to say them.” 

Tommy shrugs again, an ugly mass of _something_ scratching through his stomach. “As long as they don’t make me talk about...about _him_ , then it’ll be fine.” He spits the words like they’re painful, and they are. 

Phil’s face is too comforting, too understanding, crumpling into perfectly appropriate sorrow. “Tommy…”

“I want to be alone.” Turning, he strides away, pulling the crown off his head with an enthusiasm that’s almost vicious. He wants to scream, wants to claw at his own face until he bleeds, wants to tear the stupid golden suit (“Just like your interview!” His stylist had squealed) into a thousand pieces and then fry them, one by one, on the tower’s electric force field. He wants to march straight back onto the stage and curse every single bastard in the audience for taking such a thrill in the complete and utter destruction of his life.

But all he can do is stalk back to his room in a menacing silence, parting the crowds of Avoxes and staff as he goes. All he can do is sink to the floor next to his bed, laying his head on the too-soft sheets and relishing the hard discomfort of the wood-paneled floor. All he can do is rub the tears away when they come.

All he can do is mourn. 

\---

The Victor’s Banquet is the next day. It means another day of fake smiles, itchy makeup, and that insufferable crown, all tied up with forced interaction with the socialites and Capitol-housed Victors who’ve come to fawn over their newest plaything. Normally, Tommy doesn’t shy away from attention, but the way their eyes slide off of his, landing instead on the crown atop his head or the jewels adorning his throat, disconcerts him, makes him seek the darkest corners of the hall, where the columns nearly hide him from sight. Praying no one recognizes him from the back of his head, he stares up at the wall art, depicting former Games and social events. Everyone in the paintings looks ecstatic, regal, proud of their achievements. Tommy touches the tassels hanging from his shoulders and feels like a clown. 

Worse, he feels like a traitor. 

A throat clears behind him and he curses internally, schooling his face into polite interest as he turns. There’s a man standing a few feet away, familiar in a distant way, like someone he met once, but never again. Smiling vacantly, Tommy holds out a hand to shake, eyes dipping to the ‘VICTOR - YEAR 43’ badge pinned brightly to his lapel. 

“Tommy Simons,” he says, voice slightly rough from disuse. The man has a firm grip. 

“Schlatt.” 

They stand in silence for an awkward moment. Schlatt’s eyes don’t land on his own, instead roving over the painting behind him. Turning, Tommy reevaluates it: a slender boy in a mock general’s uniform, standing firm and upright in the same hall the Banquet is being held in. It’s not a very interesting painting; the boy’s alone, with no entourage of stylists or trainers or diplomats flanking him, and the background is a simple depiction of columns and draping red fabric. The only things notable are the boy’s eyes, which seem sadder than those of the portraits around it. Distantly, Tommy wonders if that was a deliberate choice by the artist. 

Remembering the man beside him, Tommy turns halfway and attempts to strike up a conversation, hoping he’ll get bored and leave Tommy alone again. “So, you’re a Victor too, huh?” 

“Yep.” Schlatt says, tapping the badge with one hand. “Year 43.” 

“Cool.” Tommy replies, nodding. Another beat of silence passes. 

“That’s...actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” Schlatt says, strangely subdued. From his appearance, Tommy would never guess the man to be a quiet talker, but his voice is low, like he’s trying to limit the number of people who hear their conversation. 

“Oh?” Tommy replies, curious.

Schlatt clears his throat. “Listen...I met your friend during the training days. Toby.” 

A chill runs down Tommy’s spine, and he freezes in place, dropping all pretense of a cordial smile. He’s gotten so used to the Capitol ignoring the entire concept of Tubbo that the name rings unexpected in his ears. 

“I know it’s probably a painful subject...fuck, I know it is. But I just wanted to say- thank you. For keeping him the same person. I only met him for a few days, but I could tell that he was-” Schlatt pauses, blowing out a frustrated breath. Resentment sits sour in Tommy’s throat. “I don’t know, I just-” 

“You’re right.” Tommy sneers, something snapping deep inside of him. “You don’t know. Don’t talk about him like you know him.” 

“I know it hurts-”

“You don’t, you have no idea. Listen, bitch, I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you didn’t know him.” Tommy breathes hard, chest heaving with unexpected emotion, voice raising harshly. He fights to keep it down before he continues. “You watch their videos, you speak to him once, you think you know who the hell he is, who the hell I am, you don’t. You don’t know a fucking thing.”

“Did you forget I’m a Victor, too?” Schlatt says, sharp as Tommy was. “I’ve been here before, every year since my own Banquet. I’ve seen every single kid come through here looking exactly like you do.” 

Burning with anger, Tommy swallows down a second tirade, seeing Phil’s concerned face turn towards him in the corner of his eye. The nearest waiter takes one look at Tommy and Schlatt’s faces and hurries away, balancing his tray even higher over the heads of the crowd. 

“I was that kid. You might not believe me; you don’t have to.” He audibly swallows, eyes locked on something in the distance. “I know how you feel, losing someone you love that closely. Maybe not as deep. Mine didn’t die. But I lost him all the same.” 

“How did you lose him if he didn’t die?” Tommy says, the tight coil of rage around his throat slackening slightly at the palpable vulnerability on the other man’s face. 

“He was in the Arena. I wasn’t.” 

“But you’re a Victor. You were in the Games.” 

“I was a mentor, too.” Schlatt’s eyes glaze over in memory. “A year after my Victory, I quit.” 

They stand in silence for another moment. Tommy tries to wrap his head around what Schlatt’s telling him, but something between the heat of the room and the stubborn fogginess of his thoughts refuses to let him. 

“Why’d you quit?” He asks, bluntly. 

Schlatt’s mouth twitches downward on one side. His eyes look very old. “That year...both of the final Tributes were mine.” He blinks once, slowly, like he’s contemplating another silence. “And one of them was my Toby.” 

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Schlatt adjusts his pin, looking down at his shoes, then makes eye contact with Tommy for the first time in their entire conversation. “If there’s one thing you can be grateful for, in this fucked-up world you’re just starting to know, try to be grateful for that. That at least you didn’t watch someone you loved more than yourself become a stranger.” 

Breaking eye contact, Schlatt starts to walk away, but Tommy stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“What was his name?” He asks, desperation in his voice. 

Schlatt smiles like every flower in the world is dead. “Wilbur. His name is Wilbur.” 

Tommy lets go, unsure how to end the conversation. “Okay.” 

“Take care of yourself, Tommy.” Schlatt nods, sharp smile still twisting his features. 

Tommy watches him disappear into the crowd. 

\---

The house is familiar in a wonderful, terrible way. The dusty floor, the patched-up holes in the walls, the sparse kitchen counter stacked with plates and containers, constantly in want of extra food to fill them. The four sets of threadbare clothes folded neatly on a makeshift shelf of boards and empty cans. The single pair of boots slumped, abandoned, next to the door. 

He tries not to look at the sleeping area, where the blankets are piled almost high enough to convince him of a body beneath them. He tastes a thousand mornings, a thousand greetings, on his tongue, and can’t swallow them away. 

“Tommy?” The voice is wrong. Too high-pitched. Too feminine. 

Tommy turns to see the Smiths standing in the doorway. Tubbo’s mother is the one who spoke. In the space between them, her outstretched hand dangles, the fingers curled, like she reached out before hesitating. 

She retracts her hand, resting it on the carefully braided bun of Tubbo’s sister, who turns her face into her mother’s stomach. “We saw you head away from the Center. We thought you were visiting your family, but...do you need something?” 

Tommy swallows, clenching his fists until they shake, nails biting into his palms. “I just- Tubbo wanted me to- to tell you-” He can’t get the words out. 

They stand in knowing silence for a moment. Tommy sees the pain and sympathy on the adults’ faces and wonders if it would be better to leave. They watched the Games. They know what he’s trying to say. 

But he has to do it. 

He grits his teeth and forces himself through. 

“Tubbo wanted me to tell you that- he loves you. He loved you.” The correction feels like coals burning holes into his tongue. He can’t look at them when he finishes, staring at the posh shine of his Capitol-made boots, hating the fact that he’s standing there at all. 

In a flurry of sound, Tubbo’s sister breaks from her mother’s grasp, letting out a muffled sob as she dashes out the door, nearly slamming it shut behind her. Her footsteps pound out until she’s too far away to hear. Tommy flinches, waiting like a condemned man for the other two’s reactions. 

Surprisingly, it’s Tubbo’s father, not his mother, who reaches out first. No words are spoken. A firm hand pulls Tommy’s head to his shoulder, an arm wraps around his back, and they’re hugging.

Tubbo’s father is small for his age and work, shorter than Tommy but sturdy and lean from years of farming. Tommy has to slump to rest his head on the man’s shoulder. It’s uncomfortable, but worth it. 

Another pair of arms slide around them- Tubbo’s mother. The threat of tears tightens an invisible hand around Tommy’s throat, squeezing the breath and words out of him. Instead of talking, he just lets go, allowing the simple animal comfort to console his mind into rest. 

A memory of Tubbo swims in front of his eyes, smiling sadly up at him, and Tommy blinks it away. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks. _I’m sorry. I couldn’t help you. But I’m trying, God, I’m trying so hard to fix it._

And he imagines a reply: _Tommy, you don’t have to fix it. It isn't really broken._

Then him, again. _Tubbo, you’re such an idiot. Of course it’s broken. But soon it won’t be. Because I am strong, and I am capable, and- most importantly- I am a big man._

In his mind, Tubbo laughs. _Of course._

Soon, he’ll return to his own family, his own set of apologies and condolences. ( _Look, I’m alive. Look, I’m not the son I was. I’m sorry._ ) Later, he’ll return to the Capitol, and find a way to spend the rest of his life. But for now? For now, he lets the pieces of his shattered self spill out onto the dusty, common floor, and trusts that eventually, he’ll be able to put himself together again. 

Eventually, he’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> *another yeehaw, but slightly less traumatized*
> 
> note to everyone who thought i aged wilbur down to make him kill tubbo: bold of you to assume i have the emotional fortitude to even consider writing that
> 
> thanks to everyone for reading! feel free to check out any of my other works (mostly sleepy boys inc and dream team)!


End file.
